Archive of Our Own ^beta

Richie had never been in a relationship before.

Okay, scratch that, Richie had never been in a relationship he cared about before.

There was that thing, whatever one may call it, with Katherine Bowie in the ninth grade, but that thing, whatever one may call it, lasted three days. There was Elizabeth Hudson, a truly sweet (albeit naive) transfer student a month later. That one lasted a week. And his lowest moment, he conceded, with Greta Keene at the end of that year. That eventful end-of-year bash—his first high school party. That very night, Beverly and Ben were out on their first date, Mike was going out with a pretty girl in his biology class, and Stan and Bill were staying in to watch a rented Candyman (Bill insisted it wasn’t a date when Richie asked, but seriously, Bill, your stutter gets ten times worse every time Stan is the one to ask you a question).

By freshman year, he and the losers weren’t exactly losers anymore. After middle school, Bowers was placed in juvenile detention for an unfortunate incident involving the assault of a police officer, the popular kids ignored anyone other than themselves, and everyone else simply stopped caring about status. The Losers could finally thrive as the pitiful bunch they were in peace.

The fact that Richie wasn’t seen as a loser anymore was exactly what landed him in that situation at the party—Greta Keene was on the hunt for anyone she hadn’t had a taste of that year. Once she found a tipsy Richie on the kitchen floor, covering his face as he thought, yet again, of what could have been, she knew she had found her match. That fling lasted eleven minutes. Eleven minutes of making out with a lousy replacement for one Eddie Kaspbrak.

Richie, in the back of his prepubescent freshman brain, knew why those “relationships” didn’t last. That tiny, asthmatic boy in the fanny pack had stolen his heart all the way back in seventh grade, and Richie, having gone two years without seeing him, had given up on anyone who didn’t make him feel the same way.

It had taken another two years for Richie to slowly begin to accept his fate and get the fuck over it, and then—bam, Eddie was back, and his heart was suddenly back in his chest, only it was making room for two heartbeats now.

It had been a month, and if you asked Richie, he was doing it right.

This is exactly why he was so damn confused.

Eddie had been distant.

—

If you asked Richie, he was also doing friendships right.

He came down to the cafe every Monday, partly to see his beautiful boyfriend and ruffle his mousy brown hair, but also to escape his homework and shitty home life for a few minutes during Beverly’s smoke break.

Bev had just finished lighting both of their cigarettes.

“You know he thinks you’re not serious about him, right?”

Richie choked out a cough, careful not to drop the stick between his bony fingers. “What?”

Beverly shrugged, her lips wrapping around her own cigarette butt before puffing out a cloud of smoke. “Listen, Rich, you know I love you, and we’ve been best friends for...well, for far too long, but, damn, kid, I thought you learned your lesson after those miserable four years.”

“First of all,” Richie started, holding onto the hem of his faded flannel like a security blanket, “don’t call me ‘kid,’ Marsh, I’m only two months younger than you.”

Bev huffed out a laugh.

“—And second of all, what the hell do you mean? I don’t know if he’s told you, but I call him every night. How could he get the idea that I’m not serious about him?”

Beverly pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, Trashmouth,” she whispered.

“What? Just what, Bev?” His leg jumped from his seated position on the hood of Bev’s beat-up Toyota.

“You haven’t fucking asked him out, dipshit,” she laughed. “It’s been, what, a month? Just this morning, he comes up to me, nearly in tears, because although you guys talk every night, all you do in person is make out every once in a while. Christ, Tozier, he thinks you just want to get into his pants at this point.”

Richie’s carefree smile fell.

—

The thing about these nightly phone calls, Richie noticed, was that they were just the same as they had been when they were kids.

They talked when Eddie worked on homework, when Richie was writing a song, when Eddie wanted to rant about his bitch of a mother, when Richie simply missed his voice.

Just like in middle school.

Every night, at seven o’clock sharp, no matter the circumstances, Richie called, and Eddie answered.

That night, Richie called at 6:59 (worried out of his mind, his curly mess of hair was sticking up in every which way from running his hands through it).

He cleared his throat as the line rang, eagerly waiting for Eddie to pick up so he could ask him out to a romantic dinner at Morty’s Pizzeria.

Only, Eddie didn’t pick up. He didn’t pick up the second time Rich called, either. Or the third.

—

Eddie was in love with him. Eddie was so fucking in love with Richie Tozier, it was honestly starting to get a bit ridiculous.

He had been gone for him since grade school. Eddie never stopped thinking about him. Not when they were apart, not when he moved schools, and not now.

The only problem was that Richie hadn’t fucking asked him out.

They kissed for the first time four weeks ago. It had been magical - a dream come true, really - and they had kissed plenty of times since then. Sometimes, when Eddie got off work early, or during a break when Rich stopped by, they would sneak into Eddie’s car. Eddie would scold Richie for his smoking habit, because it was getting gross to kiss him, goddamn it, and eat his words as he kissed the fuck out of his boyfriend.

And, yes, every time he kissed Richie, it felt like the first. His heart stopped in his chest, then started up, far faster than before. Half the time, he couldn’t even kiss him properly due to the shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Richie’s lips, those full things that opened to let trash out, were addictive.

Eddie adored kissing him, but it had been a goddamned month, and that’s all they seemed to do.

He was starting to think that maybe Richie didn’t feel exactly the same way as he did. Obviously, Richie wanted to make out with him, in the same way Eddie wanted to make out with him. But that was all, apparently.

Maybe he was just keeping him around to get a good fuck eventually, and then he’d leave. He’d be out of his life again.

Richie called every night around seven. That night, Eddie didn’t pick up.

—

Clink.

Clink. Clink.

Eddie glanced up from his chemistry textbook.

Clink.

His head whipped around at an alarming speed. The sound was definitely coming from his bedroom window.

“Eddie, fuck’s sake, it’s cold as shit outside,” a familiar voice whined from afar. “Let me in, baby, please!”

Eddie furrowed his brow. Maybe tonight was the night Richie would have sex with him and leave. He rolled his eyes before fixing them back on the lines upon lines of text in front of him.

The pebbles ceased after a moment. Eddie sighed.

Damn. No matter what this relationship, or friends-with-benefits deal, or whatever was, Eddie wanted to see Richie more than anything. He really would look great against his dark blue bedsheets, he thought. His dark curls would tickle his cheeks as Eddie hovered over him before ducking in for a sweet kiss.

Eddie sighed once more before hauling his ass off his chair and rushing to the window. Sliding it up, he called out a “wait!”

Richie grinned up at him. “I’m not going anywhere, babe.” With that, he turned around and fiddled with something on the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Eddie asked. He tried to sound as uninterested as possible, but, of course, he failed miserably. Because he cared. So much.

Instead of a reply, Eddie received the opening drum beat to Africa, by Toto.

“What the fuck, Richard?”

Richie hoisted a boom box onto his shoulder. “Eddie, baby—holy shit, this thing weighs as much as your mom—I love you.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but something in his chest tightened, and he couldn’t deny that. “I know that, Tozier, but why are you here with a boom box?”

“I needed to do something special, Eds! I needed to do something special to ask you a really important question.”

Great. Here came his plea for sex. Because that’s all Richie wanted him for.

As much as that thought hurt, Eddie would do anything he could to make Richie happy. Anything for that boy, even if it meant not getting a relationship out of it.

Eddie would take what he could get.

With this in mind, he sighed and leaned further out of the window. “What did you want to ask me, dipshit?”

Richie paused down below. His gaze went to his shoes, before shaking his head and looking back up at him. “Eddie Kaspbrak, I’m in love with you. I’m so, so desperately in love with you, and I want to date the fuck out of you. I really, really do.”

Eddie blinked.

“Please say yes. Or, well—uh, do whatever you feel is right, but know that I really want you to say yes. Christ, Eddie, please.”

Eddie felt a smile creep onto his face. He didn’t want to reply. Well, he would reply in other ways than words.

With that, Eddie left a hopeful Richie outside, in favor of sprinting down the stairs and out the door.

He slowed down at the sight of his—his boyfriend. Shit, his boyfriend was perfect.

Richie’s hazel eyes were wide behind his thin-framed glasses.

Eddie stepped into his space and brushed his nose against Richie’s freckled cheek. “Put the boom box down, idiot.”

Richie froze, then scrambled to get the thing off his shoulder and shut it off. The night was quiet now, except for the sound of their breathing and the faintest of crickets.

Eddie took a moment to admire him. His freckle-spotted cheekbones and crooked nose, his plump lips (oh, so kissable), and his hopeful eyes.

He couldn’t help but kiss him, really. Their noses bumped on the way and Eddie let out a chuckle, but he pressed his mouth on Richie’s nonetheless, catching his beautiful bottom lip between his.

Eddie didn’t pull back until he absolutely needed to—he needed to reply, didn’t he?

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Richie sighed, peppering Eddie’s face with wet kisses.

Eddie giggled and pushed him away. Rich flushed his body back against his like a magnet, taking his fingers and tangling them with his own. He kissed Eddie’s knuckles, up his arm, his neck, and finally, his lips.

Eddie smiled. “Well, Trashmouth, you picked the right song.”

Richie laughed that bright, intoxicating laugh of his, and kissed him again.

Eddie couldn’t get enough.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”